Killing Loneliness
by Petals Open to the Moon
Summary: A series of occasionally wicked drabbles involving unlikely pairings from the Twilight Saga. Requests will be taken, and added to coming chapters. Traditional pairings, like Alice/Jasper, aren't permitted. (NO WOLVES or SLASH ALLOWED)
1. Blood and Honey

**Hope you enjoy these, my loves. It is still a work in progress as I come up with pairings, so I am open to any Twilight ones you can think of. Only rule: it has to be different from the books. Don't be asking for Jazz/Alice, Garrett/Kate fics! :) Reviews appreciated, as always.**

**Petals **

* * *

**"Give in, give in for my touch... for my taste, for my lust."**

**(Nightwish; "Ever Dream")**

She looks like a lost child, standing in his chambers. Her face stands out painfully; a heart-shaped cut-out next to curtains of black and fatal indigo, spilling from overly-expensive furniture to puddles at her feet.

She knows exactly why she's here, though.

Maybe that's why she came. Took the raven-haired god seriously, even when he pressed her hand with that warm, mocking smile of his. He makes her feel wanted, even as he frightens her. He makes her feel powerful and beautiful and sensuous, even as she cowers in Carlisle's perfect shadow. He tells her she is his until she believes him. He tells her many things, each line delivered in impeccably sweet English, and she devours all of them with her large, melting eyes.

The good doctor knows nothing. He sits buried deep under Euthydemus and Palladius, sorting through anthologies and medical journals as long and dull as their surnames. He came at Aro's invitation, eager to immerse himself in the Volturi's cavernous library… and leaving his doll-like bride with nothing but dreams of a romantic Italy.

"He works too hard," she'd whispered, her breath spilling warm and fragrant across the ancient's cheek as he held her. "He will make himself sick…"

"We cannot grow ill, _occhi stella," _he cooed to her, smiling at her embarrassed pause as she remembered. She was still a fledgling, scarcely two decades old, and bitterly unprepared for such a life.

He offered an escape.

Esme took a soft breath as he locked the door behind him, approaching her. She's shy, and blesses him for taking initiative, like always. She imagines what the secret hollow at the base of his throat will taste like, and her heart beats with imaginary ferocity.

"Is he still in the library?" she says timidly.

He walks towards her still. "… Yes."

"And you're sure none of the Guard can hear us?"

"It would not matter if they did, but… yes."

Her hands are trembling, smoothing down the fabric of her purple skirt. "You're… you're _sure _that—"

"Hush," he breathes. His aroma is intoxicating as he bends over her, dwarfing her five foot, two inch frame with over six feet of lean, muscled perfection.

"Aro," she whimpers.

"Hush," he repeats, kissing her plump lower lip. "Let me take care of you…"

He does. With a thoroughness and skill that leaves her breathless. Divesting her of her garments, he stretches out her curvaceous frame on his bed, his warm skin burning hers. She does not think of the Guard, nor the flimsy lock that separates her from being found out. She has long since lost the ability to think.

The love-starved ancient gazes down at her for a long moment, as if deciding which area is best suited for his tongue first. It has been seven months since his irascible mate, Sulpicia, has allowed him access to her chambers, and as a healthy vampire male, he has been forced to find satiation of his own.

_What better way… what more exciting way… than to sate himself with another man's wife? _

Aro's lips find their mark, closing around a pink-tipped breast with careful precision. Esme's sighs of ecstasy only serve to spur him onward, devouring her sweet body. She tastes of honey, or fresh peaches. She has an air of wholesomeness about her, like the compassionate depths of her heart. He can certainly understand what attracted Carlisle to her. She seems so pure… despite the hell displayed to him from her previous life.

_My sweet, sweet child… _he purrs, _if you only knew what I could do to you, for you. You have never had a man love you like this, and your husband hasn't the time… _

She quivers under him, her breasts swollen like two plump doves. He wastes no time, but greedily takes what she offers, gliding inside with a hoarse growl.

Two floors below, the good doctor turns a page in yet another ponderous volume. His golden eyes sparkle with newfound discoveries, and no… he doesn't know a thing.


	2. Made of Stone

**In response to a Caius/Renata pairing request, from my dear Lady. Hope you like it, dear. **

* * *

"**Take your time… I'm not scared." (Evanescence; "Made of Stone") **

He is the most unpredictable vampire in the _fortezza. _

Easy to anger, and impossible to please, he defies any type of love or understanding. Even the lithe goddess at his side seems puzzled at times, her brow creased as she does her sweet best to comfort him. The maelstrom of anger within him never seems to cool, but remains at a steady, simmering heat, ready to explode at any moment. He is uncaring and dismissive. Vicious and beautiful. Frozen within his flesh, but raging with a never-ending fire…

… Which was why Renata never asked questions. Doing so would only fuel this fire, and she knew it.

He had come upon her, quite unexpectedly, while she was perusing through philosophy in the castle's library. The subject, so dull and tiring to some, only brought joy to her sharp little mind. She had been curled in a ball in one of the huge, straight-backed chairs, listening absently to the squeak of a stray bat up in the ancient rafters. He entered, took note of her in the chair, and frowned heavily.

"What are you doing?" he snapped.

She then leaps to her feet, the heavy volume on her lap falling to the floor. She quickly realizes this is a foolish move, as his lips tighten further at such mistreatment.

"Pick it up!"

She bends to do so, but he is before her, placing it on the table. He slaps her smartly across one cheek, the large ring on his left hand scratching under her eye. She leans against the stacks, more from the shock of it than actual pain. Her apologies are quick to come, and profuse.

"Do shut up," he says impatiently. His eyes dart from her to the table strewn with books and back again. "It is my custom to study in this alcove. Do you not know this?"

Her pale lips gape, her eyes widening in confusion. Is it possible her Master is lying? She has never seen him or his brothers up here, on the third floor of the cavernous library. If anything, it is _her _custom to study here. Not his.

"I-I don't… forgive me, my lord, I…"

"Do you think I wouldn't notice?" he says lowly. He knocks over her chair with one swipe, like a sullen panther batting away a bird. His eyes are no less fierce.

"Please," she murmurs respectfully. "I did not—"

"You did not know? I think you are spending too much time around Aro. You are as bad a liar as he is."

He looms above her, placing his hands on either side of the shelf, pinning her in. "Such a stupid girl," he sneers. "Were it not for your precious gift, you would be lying in some desolate churchyard, food for the forest beasts."

She cringes under this verbal attack. She is used to hearing it, of course, but never aimed directly _at her. _Always someone else. Everyone in the _fortezza, _in fact, but for Mistress Athenodora. Not even Master Aro—her sweet, lovably insane Master—is free from his brother's taunts.

She squeals out a cry. Master Caius' fingers are digging into her wrists, tightening cruelly before slamming them into the shelf just above her head. She is by no means a tall woman, and for him to stretch her arms near his height is by no means comfortable.

But since when is the blonde vampire interested in the comfort of others?

"Please," she says again.

"Stop saying that."

"Master…"

He only smiles at her simpering, a strange light coming into his eyes. "Say that again."

She looks up at him, bewildered. "What?"

"Call me Master."

She _always _calls him Master! Oh, what did she _do _to make him so angry? "... Master?"

He grins, his face coming shockingly close to hers. She can't tell if his mood is improved, or if he is embarking on a still crueler method of torture.

Unfortunately, it is the latter. "Tell me, Renata…" he purrs mockingly. "When was the last time you were pleased by a man?"

Oh, God! Now he is going to mock her love life?

_Or lack, thereof, _she thinks miserably. His fingers tighten on her delicate wrists, and she whimpers. "N-not for some time, my lord."

"'Master,' and Master only," he orders. "And who was it, pray, to be with you last?"

If she could have blushed, she would. "I… I do not know…"

With a quick jerk of his arm, he flips her into the air, bringing her down with a crash onto the table. He is just careful enough to not break the fine wood, but she is shaking with terror as she finds herself splayed out horizontally.

His fingers play with her throat. "Lying again. You are a stupid, _senseless _little girl, Renata. I think it is time someone punished you."

"Punished?" she squeaks.

"Yes, _mia ragazza inutile." _She feels his hand leave her throat, following by the gentle sound of fabric rustling. She turns her head to find him, but is startled suddenly by a cold, heavy pressure on her chest.

Gods above… he is _on top _of her! What is he _doing?! _

She has apparently screamed the last thought, for he laughs, the sound drenched in darkness. "Don't you dare ask me," he says to her. "Don't you ask me another question _again."_

His fingers toy with the edge of her skirt, examining the grey cloth contemptuously before tearing it off of her. What happens next is a mad scramble for decency as she yanks at the disappearing cloth to pull it back around her. Caius deals her yet another blow across the face, leaving her cheek whiter than it was before. He sits up on his knees, his pelvis digging sharply into her narrow waist, and examines her.

Renata is almost in tears. She cannot cover herself, for his hands pin her wrists to the table, and his lower body nearly crushes her legs. She heaves unnecessary breaths of air, her tiny breasts trembling lightly.

He laughs again. "You have the body of a child," he says.

Venom-soaked eyes turn away from his face, seeking something, anything else to focus on. She knows this all too well. It shames her sometimes, in private moments when she isn't beside her Master. She _hates_ Caius for telling her to her face. If she disgusts him so, then why is he doing this?

His fingers grip her chin like steel clamps. "Do not take your eyes from me until I say so." She fastens her eyes on his face, her frightened orbs quivering with their tears.

Everything begins to happen very quickly.

His pelvis grinds revoltingly against hers, his mouth descending until it touches her skin. She stares up at the ceiling when he isn't looking at her, letting him suck, bite, and ravage her porcelain flesh until she is throbbing and aching like a live wire. She cries silently, ashamed of the wetness seeping through her legs, staining his trousers.

"Very nice," he remarks. It sounds like a praise. She knows it isn't.

Mere seconds passed. He jerks against her until she comes with a heartbreaking cry; her head thrown back, and her midnight locks spilling over the edge of the table.

He murmurs a soft approval in her ear, but he doesn't let her savor it, oh, no. A barrage of insults flies at her, each one more poisonous than the last. She tries to focus on her Master—tries to remember how much he cherishes and cares for her—but her resolve is swiftly crumbling into shards. This man… this particular Master she hates so much… makes her feel like dirt.

She _is _dirt, now that he has touched her.

And worst of all… the very worst, cruelest part of it all… is that she doesn't want him to stop. She remembers all the lonely, hungry nights at her Master's door, waiting patiently for him to come out from visiting Sulpicia. She thinks of his moans coming through wood and stone, hurting her ears.

Everyone except me, she thinks, feeling Caius slide out of his rumpled trousers, kicking them to the floor. Everyone except the twins _and _me.

Warm lips tickle her ear. She moans. "You still haven't told me who he was."

"W-who, Master?"

"The last man to bed you."

His arousal presses roughly against her, and she cries out. "A-a boy! In my village!"

"Engaged to him, were you?" As if he cares.

"N-no… n-nothing like that…"

"I am sure he is dead now. Too bad you are not resting beside him, the worms eating your flesh."

His harsh words only serve to make her moan louder, partly from horror at the thought. If only he would move a little closer. Enter her, and end this nightmare before she can think too hard about it.

She gasps in shock as he fulfills her wish.

"Enjoy this," he hisses in her ear. "For this will be the _last time _anyone ever comes to you."

He forces her arms around his neck, coaxing her fingers into his hair. She yanks at the blonde locks, shrieking to the rafters as his thrusts become hard and punishing. He riddles her shoulders and breasts with teeth marks, sucking at the venom and blood that oozes forth. He reminds her of a savage lion, pouncing on and devouring its prey with little regard for pity.

He roars when he comes, pulling out of her just in time so as not to grace her with his seed. That is for his wife and his wife alone. The clear liquid trickles all over her torn dress, rendering it impossible for her to leave the library with any shred of dignity.

He doesn't wait to give her pleasure again. He has never been an empathetic man. Adjusting his clothing, he leaves, whistling softly as he glides down from the loft to the exit. Renata's ravaged body lies still, her flesh aching like he left a bit of his own fire to simmer there.

The sweetest nightmare. But she will not tell anyone of her horrific experience. Not even Alec.

She is not one to gossip. She does not ask questions.

She shuts herself out from the outside world, for now.

She is… quite literally… made of stone.

* * *

**I'm only going to say this once, and I am sorry if I offend. As a writer, I think I have a right to say this: I get _really, really _pissed off at reviews that say nothing but "update soon!" or "please update!" Not on this story, but on others I've written. ****  
**

**I find it rude, and beyond ungrateful. **

**I will not respond to these messages. **

**Am I overreacting? No, because as a writer, I spend time and energy to put up chapters for you. And if you do not have similar time and consideration to leave a decent review (even if it's only two sentences) for me, then I see no reason to post. But I do, for the readers who care to leave more than an incomplete sentence... begging me to do what I have already done with typical ingratitude. **

**I am through now. Thank you. **

************* Hope you liked this chappie! Please tell me what you thought. :) As always, I'm open to pairing requests. NO WOLVES ALLOWED. **


	3. Roses of Sunlight

**As per request from my dear Dani-Jones. I listened to some of the sweetest tracks of music I possess while writing this... and I hope it shows. This was very fulfilling to write.  
**

**Review! It makes your Petals very happy. :)**

* * *

"**I close my eyes… and I see you. I find the way to the door from agony." **

**(Lara Fabian; "Adagio") **

"To the left," he whispers.

The blonde beauty looks about her, seeing not one, but three doors in that direction.

"Which left?" she asks, irritated.

Marcus points, his skeleton-like fingers carving a shadow on the wall. She follows the direction he gives her, pushing open the heavy door with ease. One step, and the atmosphere of the room hits her square in the face.

Dust. Decay. Mold so heavy, it has damaged the ceiling, along with the cobwebbed seat cushions by the window. The floors are ruptured by water damage. The window is filled with dust, and what little furniture there is has been covered in a fine layer of delicate, greyish flakes. The fireplace looks like a yawning, ugly mouth, and the smell of the place is foul… awful…

_The alleyway looked much like this. When they shoved her down, fighting like rutting pigs over who would have her first. She was screaming into the filthy rag shoved in her mouth. The scent of mold was strong, filling her lungs with its filth until she blacked out mercifully. _

"Rosalie?" he whispers anxiously.

She leaves the room, walking backwards. "I cannot stay here."

"This is not your room," he says, distress creeping into his voice. "I would not give you such a room. You asked me where I lived. I merely wanted to show you."

"I cannot stay here," she repeats.

He pulls the door closed, a puff of dust rising into the air suddenly. She can feel his hand, warm and gentle on her elbow, as he leads her away from the hallway and up a flight of stairs. The air is much better up here; cleaner, sans any hint of mold. There are a few cobwebs on the ceiling, yes, but they swing harmlessly, their owners having long since vacated the spot.

"In here," Marcus says gently.

She walks inside. It _is _beautiful, as he promised. There are three windows on the east side of the room, evenly spaced from one another, and giving off a beautiful rosy light as the sun rises. Creamy curtains are pushed to the side, matching the soft, pastel color palette of the furnishings. Writing desk, vanity, chest of drawers, and two elegant, French chairs for company. There is also a bad, as she requested, though she has no need of it. White bookshelves sit on either side of it, filled with varying selections from the Volturi's own library.

Somehow, she knows he picked them out himself. She can see him standing in the library, his cloak pillowed on a chair as he marches back and forth, careful fingers fluttering over the book spines. His forehead is crinkled in adorable concentration, lips twisted to the side.

Rosalie turns, the image making her smile again. "I love it," she says simply.

He lets out an unnecessary breath. "I was hoping you would."

"How did you know white is my favorite color?"

"A lucky guess…"

Another smile. She walks over to the pretty vanity, her abundant curls catching the light. She nestles her face in a soft treasury of white roses, stemming up proudly from a thin-necked vase. The flowers turn their head upward, as if delighted to have such a beautiful creature touching them, caressing them.

Marcus watches, his lips gaped slightly. It is almost painful to watch her. She goes straight to his knees sometimes, causing them to be weak and tremble. Her coy smiles have him gasping for breath, as if his thousands of years are catching up to him. He remembers Chelsea's terror at the attachment, sensing her worry that such a blonde, vivacious beauty would only remind him of happier times.

This exotic rose is nothing like Didyme. She is curvy where his wife was child-like. Defiant where his wife was gently submissive. Playful only when there is reason to play, and as serious as he is the rest of the time. Didyme was predictable… but this woman can be like the heavens themselves; spitting fire one moment and gently weeping the next.

Didyme loved color, but Rosalie prefers subtlety. Mint cream, white smoke, vanilla, isabelline, and varying shades of beige. She hates black passionately. The only color she will occasionally give license to is a fiery scarlet... which doesn't surprise him in the least. He absolutely _loves _when she wears it as an evening gown, although she will tease him about his preference to the daring _corselet. _When they first made love (was it really only two days ago?) the ancient vampire felt as though she'd caught fire inside of him, ignited his heart, and set it to a frantic tempo whenever she was near.

He cannot look at her enough. She makes him feel… _alive. _

A small smile cracks the solemn lines of his face. Did he just make a pun?

She is walking towards him again, her smile now permanent on her face. He is relieved, worried that the sight of his room would ruin their fourth day together. He stands with his hands at his side and his feet apart, watching her approach. The sun has ascended further, washing out the pink with a dazzling blanket of gold. It sets her hair on fire, encircling her in an angelic halo of light.

"You are daydreaming again," she teases. She is holding a rose in her hand, running her fingers over the sharp thorns.

"Only of you, _angela mia." _

She smiles with pleasure, greedy as always for his attention. Her stone skin breaks the thorns easily, sending them tinkling to the ground at his feet. She lifts the rose, grazing the baby-smooth petals across his lips.

"_Rosalia…" _he groans.

Her perfect lips part naughtily. One of the first things he told her was that her name was translated to French from the Italian "Rosalia," which stemmed from the Latin word for "rose." She is the epitome of the famous, sensuous blossom, and she knows it as well as he. When he gives her gifts, as he often does, he never forgets to include her namesake; delicate petals scattered or arranged neatly in the piles of jewelry, silks, and fine perfumes.

She doesn't mind his use of her name. It is only uttered when she pushes him to the edge of passion, or teases his surprisingly sensitive faculties. For such a quiet, well-composed man, it is remarkably easy to make him lose control. One must only have skills like those she possesses, and the nymph-like beauty of her form. Ah, yes… Rosalie is very, very proud of herself.

"Come," she purrs. "I have a gift of my own to give you."

She replaces the flower with her lips, and he does not balk in the slightest.

* * *

Aro glides down the hallway, a copy of the Aeneid held carefully between fingers and thumb. His expression is slightly morose, for he knows his wife has yet to be in a good mood this week. She has no patience for his pleas, nor the increasingly forward notes of love he tucks under her door. Yes, he has indeed resorted to begging. His male ego is sadly battered, and his frustration nearly on par with Caius' everyday flame.

He _can _make her jealous. He's sure of it. _Perhaps I'll just pluck one off from Heidi's party tomorrow, _he muses. A fresh young beauty. Or a rich, artsy boy from the States. Now _that _would make her seethe; a male over her all too voluptuous self.

Aro chuckles, good humor restored. Unfortunately, it only lasts a moment as he passes by that Cullen girl's room. The soft sounds issuing from within leave the ancient with no doubt as to the activity. Brow darkened, he inches closer with a perverse urge in his heart.

"Marcus," he hears the beauty whisper. Her voice is thick with desire, like sweet honey. The raven-haired eavesdropper holds back a whimper of discontent, forcing himself to continue down another floor to his study. _Thank God they're far enough away to ignore._ He's still sulking over the embarrassing incident of three days ago, when he politely invited Marcus and his gorgeous lover to partake in a little _ménage à trois... _

... To which his brother just as politely declined.

Aro flings himself into the most comfortable chair in his study, ignoring the intimidating stack of paperwork lining his desk. He kicks off his shoes, curling up like a small boy with a newly-purchased treasure.

_What do I care? _he thinks, attempting flippancy._ I never liked blondes, anyway. _

Sulpicia will crack. He's beginning to think the American boy would be a very, _very _good idea!

* * *

Rosalie lies curled up in her lover's arms, her long, sinewy legs wrapped around his longer, though no less elegant limbs. She brushes kisses across his pale, hairless chest, moving aside the heavy crest that none of them _ever _remove.

"Can't you take this off?" she demands, her voice somewhat sleepy.

Marcus chuckles, a rare beautiful sound. "So impatient, _rosa mia... _after I have just fulfilled you completely?"

"I hate it. It's bulky and ugly, and the edges prick my skin."

"Your skin is as tough and resilient as you, my angel. I fear naught for it."

She pouts. "Are you insulting me?"

Marcus pulls her close, his tangled locks staining her blonde ones. "Forgive me..."

She snuggles close, accepting and returning his gentle affection. "Do you think Aro enjoyed our little show?"

"Not in the least."

A silvery laugh breaks the silence. "The poor, horny fool."

Marcus wrinkles his nose. He dislikes slang. "His wife does not sate him enough."

"I don't blame her. He cannot be easy to live with."

"He is not." He shifts his slender body -all six foot, four inches of it- and hovers over her, planting a familiar pattern of kisses down her collarbone. Rosalie squirms, but it only indicates she likes what he's doing.

"Round two?" she hints, velvety eyes sparkling.

"Don't be crude."

He nips her throat, and she exhales sharply. There follows an amusing, sensuous game of tag, with the little blonde vixen eventually winning. Marcus lets her stroke his body, his eyes suddenly thoughtful. "Love?"

She hums in response, counting his ribs with her now swollen lips.

"I did not offend you earlier... showing you my chambers?"

She pauses. "... No. I just remembered... some things. That is all."

"Are they things you wish to tell me?" he says gently.

She shakes her head. "Not now. I don't want to poison you with my life."

Wrinkles appear in his forehead, his eyes darkening mournfully. "I love you. I want to give you what you have never had before."

"Marcus... I'm tired. I'm tired of having to be strong."

He sits up. "You don't have to be. Let me..."

"You're not strong, either."

He smiles, gathering her into his arms protectively. So blunt, his _Rosalia. _"Together, we are strong."

"That sounds like a _c__liché," _she remarks.

"Have I ever exaggerated with you?"

"No... Not ever."

"No," he says firmly. "Not ever. Now hush and let me tend to you."

A venom jewel leaks from her eye, brushed away by his mouth before it can fall. She lies back under the force of his love for her, silent and filled with awe.

Rosalie Hale. Sheltered diamond of the New York upper-class. Belle of the town, in her expensive peach _rayon _and cloche hat. Former wife of a monster, and passionate lover of children and those who are actually able love her back.

The most beautiful vampire and the biggest b**** on the planet... has found him.

_Him. _

_Me._

She moans against soft, full lips, her famous hair tangled by needy, yet oh, so loving hands...

_Us._


End file.
